All the Songs Make Sense
by Kerkerian-Horizon
Summary: "How do you know that you're in love?" - "All the songs suddenly make sense." These are one-shots about John and Sherlock and how they realize that they're in love with each other (or related situations); some take place after the relationship has been established already. Most of them can stand alone. Will contain friendship, love, angst, h/c, humour, some fluff and some intimacy.
1. Darn Brain-Messing Emotions

**Disclaimer**: Sadly, I do not own Sherlock Holmes or any recognizable character and am not making any profit by using them.

**Author´s notes** (please read these first): 

I am no native English speaker and therefore apologize for any mistakes. Oh, and there are spoilers for all six episodes of _Sherlock_.

Enjoy!

o o o

**All the Songs Make Sense**

o o o

**Part 1: Darn Brain-Messing Emotions**

o o o

It happens every time. The minute John Watson leaves 221B, Sherlock begins to miss him, even if he only nips out to get milk. Sometimes he already misses him before he´s gone, which is even worse, because one day John is bound to notice how Sherlock is staring at him longingly. The detective snorts at himself, but it undeniably is true: he longs for John.

He has no idea how it happened and frankly, is quite unnerved by the surge of emotions the doctor is stirring up in him, but he does not know how to turn it off either, and he doesn´t want to if he is honest with himself. He wants John. He pines for him, to be exact, and every bodily contact, however short or unintentional or both jolts through him like electricity. He wants John to put his arms around him, to _hold _him for heaven´s sake, and he wants John to be the first thing he feels upon waking. He has never ever before had such cravings.

He is beginning to think that he´s losing his mind, and it´s getting worse; whenever he´s particularly agitated, he needs to have John near him, or at least something which smells of him. His scent is soothing, so logically Sherlock has borrowed one of John´s t-shirts, which is now hidden under a pillow in the detective´s bedroom. He is going to return it, of course, so no harm done. It is of great comfort to bury his face in it when he can´t sleep; if he can´t have the whole package, he can at least sample it, so to speak.

Sherlock loathes the turmoil which his emotions are putting him through, and he fears that he can´t concentrate enough. He does think rather a lot about John instead of entirely focusing on his respective cases, and he even has caught himself at allowing his mind to wander when John talks to him, for it is much more interesting to watch the other´s movements and expressions. Sherlock knows exactly how to read his flatmate´s body language, and he sometimes sees things he doesn´t like. Like the exhaustion after a particularly gruesome workday.

"Are you even listening to me?" John said, exasperated, the last time it happened.

Sherlock visibly started: "I´m sorry."

"Yes, you bloody well should be." John frowned at him.

Not good. Sherlock unexpectedly felt his stomach drop and would have liked to make it up to John, but didn´t know how.

"You´re tired," he therefore said, hoping it would suffice, "you´ve come back from a ten hour-shift at the surgery and are still trying to help me by going through the facts again with a fine-tooth-comb. I however didn´t listen to you, which is making you angry, and you´re considering of getting up and retiring to your room because I´m a rude, inconsiderate, selfish bastard."

John, despite his best efforts, couldn´t but smile: "Yes, my words exactly."

Sherlock had been tremendously relieved and from that point on did his best to not let himself go like that again. It´d been a lot easier when he didn´t have to care about the things he said and did. Except with Mummy, but that´s different.

**o**

So it is hard to keep to his good intentions at times, because John is so damn handsome and wonderful, and the world seems a better place when he smiles. Which_ is_ rather distracting! Also, he´s got the most adorable little dimples, and Sherlock is furthermore certain he could lose himself in those eyes for hours. He sometimes imagines how it would be like if they slept in the same bed, snuggled up together. He would be able to feel John´s heartbeat, a thought that always makes his own heart rate increase considerably.

He already knows that John doesn´t snore, and he is quite sure he doesn´t either, but would it bother John if Sherlock´s breath smelled bad in the morning? Would it be possible to sneak out of bed, brush his teeth and sneak back in without waking John? Or should he keep a packet of mints on the nightstand?

And what if John wanted intercourse? What if it went really bad? Really, _really_ bad?

Frustratedly, Sherlock runs his hands through his hair; how do people do all that, finding a partner and then striking up a relationship without knowing all these variables? He doesn´t have the faintest idea.

John doesn´t seem intimidated by those questions at all. He keeps dating women, who however keep turning him down, much to Sherlock´s relief. It´s nearly unbearable seeing John leave, anticipating a pleasant evening in the company of a potential sexual partner and/or _soulmate_, unsuspecting of Sherlock´s jealousy.

It doesn´t occur to the detective that the disappointing outcome might have anything to do with himself; no matter how romantic the restaurant is, there is only a limited amount of time a woman wants to spend listening to her date talking about his quirky- but-oh-so-great flatmate. It gets worse if the flatmate, upon meeting him, turns out to be lacking any social skills and utterly fails to prove his greatness.

The more difficult it becomes to hide his feelings, the more snappy and irritated Sherlock gets, especially with the rest of the world, meaning anyone else he has to share John with. And he certainly has no intention of making a good impression on the respective Sarahs, Janets or Marys.

**o**

John notices that Sherlock´s behaviour is odd, and much more so than usual. He can´t really fathom the reasons; at home, Sherlock seems reasonably relaxed, at least when they spend some quiet time together. Yet when they´re out, no matter whether it´s at a crime scene or in a supermarket, Sherlock seems to feel uncomfortable. He does his best to hide it behind a deliberate display of arrogance, but John knows him well enough to see through it. Something is bothering Sherlock, and whatever it is, he is sleeping and eating even less than usual. John worries, but knows better than to let it on.

Lestrade isn´t fooled either. "What´s up with him?" he asks in an undertone, nodding towards the detective who´s examining the latest victim´s fingers.

John shakes his head: "I don´t know. He won´t talk to me about certain matters."

Lestrade regards him silently for a moment: "Funny. I´d think he did, what with the way he´s been looking at you recently when you´re not paying attention to him."

John raises one eyebrow in question, at which the D.I. puts his hands in his pockets and shrugs: "Like you´re the only one whose opinion counts. Or... the only one who´s there."

Before John has found a reply to that, Lestrade walks away, all innocence. John murmurs: "Well, I _am_ the only one-" but then he stops. _Oh_.

Luckily, Sherlock is too occupied with the victim to register how John, after standing stunned for a moment, suddenly moves astonishingly quick to catch up with Lestrade: "Greg. Wait."

The D.I. turns to him, and John has a feeling that he is hiding a grin.

John pointedly ignores it: "What you just said- for how long do you think has it been going on, you think?" _And more importantly, who else has noticed?_ he wonders, but doesn´t ask.

**o**

John is unusually quiet during the following few days and seems to be avoiding Sherlock´s presence at times, or maybe he simply has got the evening shift for a change.

When he comes home after dark one day, he falls into his chair and sighs tiredly, but doesn´t speak. Sherlock´s been fiddling with his violin without actually playing it, and when he finally sits down opposite the doctor, he feels exhausted. He can sense that something is going on in John´s mind and has done so for a time, but he doesn´t dare ask.

What if John is considering moving out? He will eventually do so, a notion that makes Sherlock want to curl up in despair and simultaneously destroy all available breakables within his reach, but surely not yet? John will wait until he has met the right woman, being the sensible man that he is. The only other reason could be Sherlock´s antics, but as far as he recalls, he´s been good. He´s certainly done his best and even removed the bowl of earlobes from the fridge.

They sit in silence until Sherlock can´t bear it any longer and gets up; he still has work to do. It will at least take his mind off John. John who looks worried, who is paler than usual and who smells so good. If he is indeed going to move out, Sherlock is determined to keep at least one of his t-shirts.

**o**

Later that night, Sherlock sits at the kitchen counter and measures out liquids into different test tubes when John comes in.

He has been pondering Lestrade´s words for ages and still not got an inkling about what he should do. Maybe he should start by stopping to mull it over.

"Sherlock," he says, and to his astonishment, Sherlock goes perfectly still. He doesn´t exactly drop his pipette, but only barely manages to put it down, then he freezes. He doesn´t look at John, and his body suddenly is tense.

"What´s wrong?" John asks.

Sherlock needs a moment to gather himself before turning to face his friend: "Are you moving out?"

"What?" John looks so surprised that Sherlock makes a mental note: _completely misjudged situation, but at least proves that emotions are messing with brain_.

He is so relieved, however, that he starts to tremble. He quickly tries to hides his hands and unintentionally knocks an Erlenmeyer flask over with enough force to break it. He hisses as he feels the glass cutting into his skin.

Immediately, John is there, taking hold of his hand before Sherlock can pull it away and begins to examine the wound: "I´ll need to take the shards out-"

"It´s fine, John," Sherlock grounds out through the haze of pain and John´s scent and his own confusion and _John_. John who´s touching him, whose hands feel good even now, under these circumstances, and who Sherlock doesn´t want to lose.

John looks up at him: "What´s wrong, Sherlock?" he repeats, and his voice is so kind and warm and beautiful that Sherlock trembles even more, trembles with want and bereavement and love all at once: "N-nothing´s wrong," he manages to say.

It´s obvious that John doesn´t believe him.

"Liar," he breathes. He let´s go of the topic for the time being though, in order to care for Sherlock´s wound despite the detective´s protests.

Twenty minutes later, the wound is clean and bandaged, and John has poured Sherlock and himself a brandy. "For the pain," he says, and they clink glasses.

Sherlock doesn´t feel like drinking it and the pain is already receding, but he complies. Anything is better than talking; he feels cornered, which makes him uneasy, and he must be careful not to become snappy.

"You´re trembling," John observes."Need me to get you a red blanket?"

Sherlock huffs but can´t subdue a small smile. John´s humour. Another treat.

"Seriously, Sherlock." John looks at him with so much affection that Sherlock begins to feel funny.

"What is going on? Why did you think I´d want to move out?"

Sherlock´s brain is letting him down, however; darn emotions. Wordlessly, he holds out his glass; it can´t get worse anyway.

**o**

Only after the second refill, Sherlock finally begins to relax: "All these women," he says, "you keep dating all these women. I guess _their _breath doesn´t smell bad in the morning."

John really doesn´t know how to answer that.

Sherlock however has only just started, and he hears himself, rather horrified, as all the pent-up emotions take over: "These women. Their breath probably smells liks _flowers_ when they wake up, even though that´s physically impossible. But what do I know,_ I_ have never woken up with a woman, so it´s all guesswork. I can only _guess_ how it would be to wake up next to you. And let me tell you, I´m _done_ with that. Feelings only make one´s life a misery because frankly, it´s very hard to look on and then there´s pining and heartache and wondering what to do in case you´d want intercourse, but I guess none of _them_ even notices how really good you smell, and I just can´t do that anymore."

He stops, exhausted and a little horrified, and asks himself whether he has gone mad; if John really hasn´t considered moving out so far, he certainly is going to now. Oh god, how Sherlock is already missing him. With an appalled sigh, he lets his head drop into his uninjured hand, making another mental note: _brandy on an empty stomach equals truth serum_. _Not good when applied to self._

John is too busy trying to comprehend what he has just heard, and he is deliberately ignoring the word 'intercourse' for the time being. Sherlock has a crush on him, that much seems clear, and what he has just blurted out explains a lot. Explains everything, for that matter. John looks at the detective, who´s trembling again, sitting hunched over and hiding his eyes behind his fingers. Maybe it´s more than a crush.

Though John _has_ eaten something, he can also feel the effect of the brandy, if ever so slightly. He probably should go to bed and deal with this later, well-rested and rationally, but he can´t. He can´t leave Sherlock like this, not after what he just revealed.

And John doesn´t want to leave it at that, because his heart rate has actually increased considerably during the past half hour, starting when he found Sherlock in the kitchen, obviously distressed and looking so forlorn that John felt the need to hug him. Which he didn´t do, because he wasn´t certain how Sherlock would react. And then Sherlock said all those things, making John´s heart beat even faster.

When John remains silent but miraculously doesn´t leave the room, Sherlock almost timidly raises his head: "I´m. I´m sorry, John," he grounds out. "I- I..."

John shakes his head: "Don´t be."

Sherlock thinks he has misheard: "What?"

The doctor shrugs: "There really is only one way to find out."

"Find out what?"

"Oh, do keep up Sherlock." John smiles at Sherlock´s obvious confusion, cocking his head: "Will you go out with me?"

For a moment, Sherlock doesn´t seem to breathe.

"On a date?"

"Yes, on a date. It´s when two people go out and do something nice together, remember?."

"But we always-"

"_No_, we don´t. Cases don´t count."

"Oh." Sherlock can´t quite believe that he´s not dreaming this.

But then John touches him, only ever so slightly but sending another electric jolt through Sherlock´s nerves, and there is his scent again, familiar and soothing. He is waiting for an answer. "So?"

Sherlock, for once happy not to think about the matter for too long, nods: "Yes... I´d like to go out with you."

He looks as though he doesn´t know what has struck him.

"Good. I know a nice little place." John smiles once more, illuminating the whole room or so it seems. "I´m going to bed now. Good night."

"_John_-" Sherlock breathes, struggling for the right words. "How does one do it?"

John stops dead in his tracks:"Do what?"

"Well- you know... dating?"

The doctor stares at Sherlock for a moment, secretly relieved: "Relax. You´ll find out." He nods reassuringly: "You´ll like it."

**o**

Much later that night, lying widely awake on the sofa, Sherlock makes another mental note. _Correction: emotions do mess with brain but outcome might not be entirely undesirable_.

**o o o**

**The End  
**

Thanks for reading! Feedback welcome.**  
**


	2. John and Sherlock

**Disclaimer**: Sadly, I do not own Sherlock Holmes or any recognizable character and am not making any profit by using them.

**Author´s notes** (please read these first):

This is not an ongoing multi-chapter fic, rather variations of the same theme (which might greatly differ in length), namely how John and Sherlock realize they are in love with each other or respectively which trigger situations might occur.

It´s _neither going to contain smut nor any graphic sex_, and I really don´t like the word 'slash'- 'love' sounds much better. So yeah, I couldn´t resist, for they do make a great couple in my opinion, and of course you´ll get some fluff as well.

_Still, if you don´t like to read about homosexual love, this might not be the right thing for you._

Furthermore I am no native English speaker and therefore apologize for any mistakes. Oh, and there are spoilers for all six episodes of _Sherlock_.

I´ve replied to the reviews but also want to thank the guest reviewers. I´m happy about the feedback!

And now: enjoy!

o o o

**All the Songs Make Sense  
**

o o o

Part 2: John and Sherlock

o

Part 2 is AU to _The Reichenbach Fall_, which simply doesn´t happen here.

My prompt was: Assuming that the verbal abuse and general mistrust of Donovan etc. will still accumulate somehow, this is set after things at a crime scene have turned particularly nasty- Sherlock is human, after all.

**o**

When John comes home, Sherlock sits, no, _huddles_, in a corner of the sofa, legs drawn up, as though trying to take up as little space in the world as possible. His eyes are glassy and he looks rightly devastated.

John doesn´t need to think about what to do; he perches down and gently takes Sherlock´s hands in his; they are cold, and he can feel a tremor in the other man´s body. An echo of shell-shock, maybe.

Sherlock, rather unexpectedly, does neither snap at John nor pull away; he slowly, almost timidly raises his eyes, and when their gazes meet, John reads exhaustion in Sherlock´s, and a profound sadness.

"Come on," John says quietly, tugging a little. Sherlock is reluctant at first, but finally allows John to pull him to his feet. He doesn´t say anything, which only emphasizes the state he is in, but then tiredly complies and leans against John. Which is a relief, as he can´t keep himself upright anymore, he is too exhausted. When John puts his arms around him, it seems natural. They belong together, Holmes and Watson, everybody knows. If there is one person he trusts, it´s John. Being with him is calming Sherlock´s frayed nerves, is making life bearable. Because of this one person he can cope with all the others.

John´s left hand comes to rest on Sherlock´s back; he can feel Sherlock´s ribs and the movement of his breathing even through the layers of clothing, and it occurs to him how frail the man in his arms seems when disarmed of his flashing eyes and sharp tongue. But by now John knows Sherlock well enough to see through his mask; he can see the impact marks on Sherlock´s soul. Every time someone hurls insult at him he is hurt, even though he has become very good at hiding it.

Ever since they have met, John has spent a good deal of time pondering how Sherlock has turned out so detached from emotions, so obviously cold and generally incomprehensible as he appears in the eyes of strangers. John had caught glimpses of the true Sherlock often enough to know that there is an entirely different side to him, a side which doesn´t deny feelings and which craves to be acknowledged by others, a side which is vulnerable and lonely and does not like being alone at all.

**o**

"You will be all right," John now says, carefully,"because I won´t let anyone _ever _treat you like that again."

Sherlock however avoids his gaze; all the fight has left him. "Maybe they´re right, John," he eventually replies in a very low voice. "Maybe they do have a point."

"No." John shakes his head. "Sorry, _no_, they don´t. You are neither a freak nor a psychopath, and I absolutely defy anyone calling you thus out of jealousy or stupidity. And after you´d gone, I have made that very clear." In fact, the knuckles of his right hand are still aching. He does not regret it though; Anderson really had it coming.

Sherlock attempts a smile, which clearly is only for John´s sake, but fails miserably. He rather looks as though he is about to cry, which is disconcerting; John has hardly ever seen him lose control like that.

"Sherlock," John´s kind voice cuts into the detective´s heart. "You´ve ignored it all the time, ever since we met and probably a long time before that. But tonight was- it was too much, and you do not have to tolerate such behaviour. I´m astounded that Lestrade has never put his foot down before."

"He didn´t take them seriously enough," Sherlock points out.

"Well, he does now."

They are silent. John can feel Sherlock trembling, and suddenly knows what to do. "Come on." he says again, pulling the other towards the hall without letting go of him. It´s a kind of a crab-walk he´s doing, but he couldn´t care less.

**o**

They end up on Sherlock´s bed, where John leans back against the headboard and holds Sherlock in his arms. He couldn´t leave him alone if he wanted to, and right now, John wants to be nowhere but here, providing safety for the man he... he loves, protecting him by wrapping his arms around him as firmly as he can, holding him tight.

At first, Sherlock´s body is taut, but he eventually relaxes, melting into John. He is so tired that for once he can´t seem to think, and is secretly glad about it. He was close to coming apart, which is not good, but now he´s much better. John´s arms are like a fortress, and Sherlock can feel the doctor´s heartbeat and smell his unique scent, and there´s nothing he likes better. It even makes being unable to think bearable, and Sherlock can close his eyes. He doesn´t need to be strong anymore, nor keep up appearances. He´s been cold all day but now John´s warmth is all around him, keeping him safe. He wouldn´t have expected it to feel so good, or so right for that matter. He feels like he belongs here, in John´s arms, where nothing and no one can hurt him. He´s also sure that John won´t ever use this against him: he doesn´t think of Sherlock as being weak because of this.

And suddenly he´s afraid of losing _this_ again. He absolutely can´t imagine living without John, and wonders how he´s managed before. Suffice it to say that he barely did. His life and his health have improved considerably ever since the doctor arrived, and Sherlock wouldn´t hesitate to set aside most of which happened before 221B. Whereas he wants to remember _everything_ afterwards.

In other words, he´s afraid of losing John.

**o**

John notices that Sherlock, who has just begun to relax, suddenly begins to shiver. It´s different from the previous tremor and immediately has the doctor worried: "Sherlock?" he asks in a low voice. "What´s wrong?"

Sherlock needs a moment to compose himself: "I can´t lose you." he whispers, his breath warm against John´s shirt. It´s not easy for him to lay his feelings bare like this, and he´s scared of the outcome. But there´s no going back now.

John is flabbergasted by this unexpected statement; not because of its meaning, which he rather agrees with, but because of all the complex fears it implies: "You won´t."

Sherlock is still trembling: "Inevitably, you´ll leave one day. You´ll find a partner-"

"Sherlock!" John actually raises his voice, emphasizing how exasperated he is: "Shut _up_, will you? I´m not going to leave you!"

The trembling subsides during the silence that follows.

"But-"

"There is no but. There _are_ no buts! I am not going to leave you, period." John can feel himself blush and suddenly feels nervous, but he can´t stop now: "I thought- I thought I already found a- a partner." He clears his throat. "In. _Hrmph_. You."

Stunned, Sherlock turns his head so he can look at John: "But I meant-"

"Another but! I _know_ what you meant. And _I_ meant what I said."

"Oh." Sherlock needed a moment to comprehend this. "So it´s not just because of... today?"

John knew what the other was implying: that he was reacting this strongly because he felt overly protective, which might change again once things had turned back to normal. Well, what ´normal´ was like in 221B.

_Right_. The doctor is aware that he about to say something life-altering. Nothing will ever be the same afterwards, but he decides not to postpone taking the risk. The moment seems right, and he has hesitated far too long already anyway; there have been plenty of unspoken thoughts and sentiments between them lately.

He tries not to let on his agitation when he slowly, almost gingerly, lays his hand on Sherlock´s cheek, caressing him: "There is a reason why my dates all went wrong," he says quietly. "And it took me a while to figure it out, or rather, admit it to myself. But actually it´s easy: my heart wasn´t in it. Because my heart was here, with you."

Sherlock feels a nervous flutter in his stomach and assumes that this is what people call _butterflies_. He can hardly believe what he´s just heard. His breathing hitches: "But the subtext you´re hearing every time I speak is _punch me in the face_. You said so."

John smiles: "I may have exaggerated a little. It´s not _every_ time. Quite often I hear _hug me_ as well."

Now it´s Sherlock´s turn to blush.

John´s fingers gently run through the dark, unruly curls: "I want to be where you are." he says, rather seriously now. "I´m not just running after you because I´ve got nothing better to do. It´s what I´m _chosing_ to do."

Sherlock feels happiness welling up in him; a rare experience for him, therefore all the more welcome. "When I said I was married to my work..." he eventually says, "I meant it. But we hardly knew each other back then. It´s all different now, John."

Simultaneously, they move a little so they can look at each other.

"It´s not going to be easy," Sherlock suddenly frowns, studying John´s face with a forlorn expression. "They-"

John cuts him off by simply shaking his head once, smiling as he does so: "_They _can piss off for all I care."

**o  
**

The lines of worry in Sherlock´s face suddenly disappear; he leans towards John once more, seeking his touch, and the doctor gladly complies and accepts him in his arms.

Sherlock presses as close to him as possible, exhaling with one shuddery breath, and they reinforce their embrace.

"I´ve got you," John murmurs into his hair. "You´re all right. _We_´re going to be all right. And if I could, I would make time stop so we could have this moment forever. I love you, Sherlock."

Sherlock´s breath hitches again; under normal circumstances, he would have dismissed it as horribly corny, but he remembers what he has read somewhere: when you´re in love, all the songs make sense. And even Sherlock has listened to some pretty corny songs in his life. So... _love_. It does seem to make sense, this.

"_John_," he murmurs, tasting the name on his tongue as though he´s using it for the first time. But then, he has never used it in this particular context. "John and Sherlock."

"Yes," John smiles, craning his neck so he can press his cheek against Sherlock´s forehead. "John and Sherlock."

**o o o**

**The End  
**

Thanks for reading! Feedback welcome.**  
**


	3. First Kiss

**Disclaimer**: Sadly, I do not own Sherlock Holmes or any recognizable character and am not making any profit by using them.

**Author´s notes** (please read these first):

This is not an ongoing multi-chapter fic, rather variations of the same theme (which might greatly differ in length), namely how John and Sherlock realize they are in love with each other or respectively which trigger situations might occur.

It´s _neither going to contain smut nor any graphic sex_, and I really don´t like the word 'slash'- 'love' sounds much better. So yeah, I couldn´t resist, for they do make a great couple in my opinion, and of course you´ll get some fluff as well.

_Still, if you don´t like to read about homosexual love, this might not be the right thing for you._

Furthermore I am no native English speaker and therefore apologize for any mistakes. Oh, and there are spoilers for all six episodes of _Sherlock_.

**Thank you for reading and commenting****!**

Part 3 is short and sweet. All the songs make sense, remember? ;D

Enjoy!

o o o

**All the Songs Make Sense  
**

o o o

Part 3: First Kiss (John's POV)

**o**

John hesitates for only the shortest of seconds; he knows that this will change everything that has been so far. Yet he can´t seem to stop himself, he wants this so much and it feels as though he has forever been wanting it.

With one long step he closes the distance between them and grabs hold of Sherlock´s coat, pulling him close until their bodies are touching.

John´s heart is racing, and for another second he is scared by what he´s just done, scared that it was the wrong thing to do and will send Sherlock running into the opposite direction, but the detective´s expression suddenly softens, and inexplicably, famously, John feels Sherlock´s arms around his back, his hands on his shoulders, tentative and gentle and a little restless. Yet there is nothing frantic about it all, and John suddenly feels calm; with a deep sigh, he turns his face further upwards until his skin meets Sherlock´s.

They simply, tenderly, nuzzle their faces together, inhaling the other´s scent. It feels like home, John thinks. It´s where he wants to be, close to Sherlock, having him safe and warm in his arms. He can´t bear the thought of anyone hurting him, or _touching_ him for that matter. He is overwhelmed by a sudden onslaught of jealousy and possessiveness that is new to him, but then, he has never _felt_ this way.

Pulling back a little, his eyes roam Sherlock´s face, taking in every detail and finding that he knows it already, that the landscape in front of him is as familiar as his own features. And he loves everything about it.

"May I kiss you," he says quietly, only partly making it sound like a question.

Sherlock´s eyes (_I could drown in them_, John thinks) widen a fraction before he breathes a reply: "You don´t have to ask."

Even though his deep voice is low, it seems to reverberate through John´s chest, redirecting his attention to his still erratically beating heart for a second. He briefly pauses, trembling; his hand finds Sherlock´s face, his fingers caressing the warm, pale skin (_so soft_), and he can´t but marvel at the beauty of it all, of Sherlock ever so minutely shuddering at being touched like that, closing his eyes for the shortest of seconds- of this moment and their _togetherness_, for goodness´ sake, before they kiss.

It´s tender and soft and amazingly, purely Sherlock, the way he feels and the way he tastes, and it´s really all John´s ever wanted.

Unhurriedly, they take their time, exploring, allowing themselves to be overwhelmed. They´re both new to this, after all.

**o o o**

**TBC  
**

Thanks for reading! Feedback welcome.**  
**


	4. Because Of You

**Disclaimer**: Sadly, I do not own Sherlock Holmes or any recognizable character and am not making any profit by using them.

**Author´s notes** (please read these first):

This is not an ongoing multi-chapter fic, rather variations of the same theme (which might greatly differ in length), namely how John and Sherlock realize they are in love with each other or respectively which trigger situations might occur.

It´s _neither going to contain smut nor any graphic sex_, and I really don´t like the word 'slash'- 'love' sounds much better. So yeah, I couldn´t resist, for they do make a great couple in my opinion, and of course you´ll get some fluff as well.

_Still, if you don´t like to read about homosexual love, this might not be the right thing for you._

Furthermore I am no native English speaker and therefore apologize for any mistakes. Oh, and there are spoilers for all six episodes of _Sherlock_.

**Thank you all again for reading!**

And now: enjoy!

o o o

**All the Songs Make Sense  
**

o o o

Part 4: Because of you

**o**

_Part 2_ is AU to _The Reichenbach Fall_, which simply doesn´t happen here.

My prompt was: Assuming that the verbal abuse and general mistrust of Donovan etc. will still accumulate somehow, this is set after things at a crime scene have turned particularly nasty- Sherlock is human, after all.

_Part 4_ deals with the same initial situation as part 2, so there might be similarities.

**o**

Even as he flew up the stairs to the flat John wished, probably for the hundreth time in as many days, that he could protect Sherlock from the rest of the world.

The detective still called John an idiot at times, but the doctor could handle that. He knew his friend well enough to differentiate between a real insult and simple frustration at not being understood. Their relationship had in fact changed over time, and John found it increasingly easy to deal with Sherlock´s peculiarities. Or maybe the detective was more lenient towards him because of their friendship; John at least did have the feeling that Sherlock was at least trying to be more affable, apart from the fact that he really liked John, but he simply couldn´t jump over his own shadow concerning his behaviour, or swallow his pride.

He would never willingly admit defeat or concede that he needed anyone, not even today. Never in front of anyone else. But now they were home: home meant the privacy of being able to let down one´s guard, something both of them had learned to do around each other, due to mutual trust and respect. They still bickered fairly often of course, and John´s patience was sorely tested at times, but he had learned how to read Sherlock.

Sherlock, who was now standing there in the middle of the living room, very pale, with blood-shot eyes and an unmistakable tremor, looking so heartbreakingly disappointed and hurt and lonely that it did indeed, well, break John´s heart. The detective might as well have been standing somewhere alone in the desert.

John couldn´t watch that, and he couldn´t bear the thought of having to search the flat again because it might be another Danger Night, simply because people were stupid and didn´t know where their loyalties lay. People too often didn´t think for themselves, they believed everything they read in the tabloids rather than putting facts together and finding an opinion of their own. Or they only took those facts into account which seemed to befit their prejudices, just as most of the members of Lestrade´s division did when it concerned Sherlock, undoubtedly spurned on by the likes of Sally Donovan.

Without thinking further, the doctor strode over to Sherlock, pulling the taller man into his arms. He expected defiance, maybe being pushed away even, but to his utter surprise, Sherlock hesitantly, almost timidly, returned the hug after a moment, and it wasn´t the wooden, inexperienced motion one might have expected from him, but more of a melting into the other´s embrace.

John could feel how cold Sherlock´s skin was and that his friend gradually stopped trembling. When they let go, after an unmeasurable amount of time, Sherlock´s face was grave: "I´m... I´m sorry, John."

John felt his stomach twist oddly at these words: "Whatever for?" he said, hoarsely.

"For dragging you into all of this. And now... I´m weighing you down with emotional baggage. I know you´re a... a caring person, and you are used to dealing with emotions, but you don´t have to... I mean, I can´t ask-"

"_Shut up_, will you?" John said gently. "You think I´m still here just because I feel ... ethically compelled to or something like that?"

For once, Sherlock was lost for words. He just stood there, looking lonely again, alone in the world. Lost in the desert. His shoulders were drooping uncharacteristically, probably saying more about him than words ever could.

John stepped closer to Sherlock again, winding his left arm around Sherlock´s midriff and laying his right hand on Sherlock´s cheek, not wasting any thoughts on how awkward it might get if he was wrong. With his thumb, he gently stroked the soft skin underneath Sherlock´s eye, his fingertips applying gentle pressure on his temple. The detective looked stunned, but he ever so gently leaned into the touch, craving the tenderness. This was new to him, but he already felt bereft at the prospect that it might stop again.

John was trembling, but it seemed to him that this what he was supposed to be doing, and he was aware that he very possibly was the only person in the world who could. Well, apart from Mrs. Hudson maybe, if in an entirely different context.

"_Sherlock_. I´m here because of _you_," he said quietly, feeling brave. "I can´t be anywhere but with you, I thought you had understood that much."

Sherlock´s face softened when John´s words were sinking in. There was relief evident in the great detective´s eyes as well as surprise, and something akin to joy.

"John," he said in a very low voice. "Do you know what you´re saying."

"I do," John said, smiling. "Make no mistake about that. So... I hope you do not have any objections about... this."

The smallest of smiles graced Sherlock´s haggard face: "As a matter of fact, I don´t," he said, nearly whispering. "I don´t quite understand it, but... it _ feels_ just right."

With a sigh, they melted into each other again, holding on tightly. Sherlock tentatively laid his cheek against John´s, nuzzling his ear with the tip of his nose, carefully taking in the scent of his skin and how it felt to do all this.

John closed his eyes; he was trembling, all his nerves were on alert because of Sherlock being so close, and being so tender at that. John wanted more but at the same time wished these moments would last for all eternity. No matter what was going to come, he wouldn´t ever lose this again.

They lost any sense of time, savouring the notion of what was happening, the sweetness of it.

"Let´s sit down," John suggested after a while, because Sherlock was beginning to shake slightly, this time with fatigue. Without letting go completely, they moved over to the sofa. It was a relief to get off their feet; unceremoniously, they dropped down, entangled as they were. Sherlock´s head came to rest in the hollow of John´s neck; the doctor could feel his breath ghosting over his skin. They huddled together as closely as they could, content to snuggle up.

"I was cold all day," Sherlock murmured, sounding drowsy.

John reinforced his grip around Sherlock´s shoulders: "Is it better now?"

"Yes." He sighed. "Much better. I was wrong..."

John, who had an inkling about what he meant, did not comment on this.

**o**

Some time in the night he woke up, for a very short moment confused, but then recalled it all: the rest of the world. Sherlock. The embrace. The sofa. _Sherlock_.

A homely warmth spread in his belly; he felt a little crick in his neck from lying in the same position all the time, but Sherlock´s warm weight and the tickle of his locks against John´s skin considerably made up for it.

"You are awake," Sherlock murmured unexpectedly, the low rumble of his baritone voice reverberating through John´s chest.

"Excellent deduction," John murmured teasingly.

To his surprise, Sherlock laughed, a deep, rich sound:"No. Just a different breathing pattern. I could feel it."

Sherlock´s spirits seemed sufficiently restored. He was out of the desert for now.

John smiled:"Are you okay?" he wanted to know, just to make sure.

"Yes. Are you?"

"Yes."

"But?"

Why did he have to be so damn perceptible?

"Well... my left side´s getting a bit numb."

"Sofa´s too narrow."

"Yeah... should we... you know... _relocate_?"

John could have sworn he heard Sherlock smile as well.

"Yes. Let´s."

Tiredly, they pulled each other up; Sherlock then took the lead towards his bedroom. He shrugged out of his coat and jacket and let them drop on the floor, then slipped out of his shoes; John did the same, hesitatingly, but Sherlock unceremoniously pulled the covers back and John down with him, as though he couldn´t bear to be too far from him.

"Could you do that again?" he asked, sounding unusually insecure. Shy, even.

"Do what?"

"... Hold me?"

Sudenly, John´s belly was full of butterflies.

"Yes," he felt happiness welling up in him. "Yes, I´d love to. Come here."

Thus Sherlock inched closer until he was nestled safely in John´s arms. It felt good, and John smelled incredibly good, too. For the first time in months Sherlock was able to relax, and it didn´t take long for him to fall asleep.

John however was wide awake again, listening to the heartbeat he could feel and the sound of Sherlock´s quiet breathing. He hadn´t known how much he had wanted this until now. He subdued a giggle and simply let the sensation of being so close to Sherlock wash over him anew. Happily, he closed his eyes.

**o**

In the early morning light, John was watching a sleeping Sherlock. He looked pale and tired, but his face was relaxed, the dark curls of his hair sweeping over his features.

John felt very protective of him, wanting to hide him from the world. Gently, almost timidly, he reached up and stroked Sherlock´s cheek with the back of his fingers, marvelling at the softness of the skin. He then moved on to the delicate shell of the ear and from there to the neck, proceeding towards the hairline. He was so lost in thought that he didn´t notice how Sherlock´s breathing changed almost imperceptibly, and then his eyes slowly opened.

As their gazes met, John paused in his motion, unsure as to how Sherlock would react. Maybe he did not want this after all, maybe he was going to reconsider. But all of a sudden, he smiled. He was very obviously still sleepy, but he freed his hand from under the duvet and reached for John as well, curling his fingers into the other´s hair, savouring the contact. "You feel good," he murmured, "John. Don´t let go again. Ever."

And John knew he wasn´t going to; he needed to be close to Sherlock, and much as it might surprise Mycroft, not only to protect him.

**o o o**

**The End  
**

Thanks for reading! Feedback welcome.**  
**


	5. Mirror, Mirror on the Wall

**Disclaimer**: Sadly, I do not own Sherlock Holmes or any recognizable character and am not making any profit by using them.

**Author´s notes** (please read these first):

This is not an ongoing multi-chapter fic, rather variations of the same theme (which might greatly differ in length), namely how John and Sherlock realize they are in love with each other or respectively which trigger situations might occur.

It´s _neither going to contain smut nor any graphic sex_, and I really don´t like the word 'slash'- 'love' sounds much better. So yeah, I couldn´t resist, for they do make a great couple in my opinion, and of course you´ll get some fluff as well.

_Still, if you don´t like to read about homosexual love, this might not be the right thing for you._

Furthermore I am no native English speaker and therefore apologize for any mistakes. Oh, and there are spoilers for all six episodes of _Sherlock_.

**Thank you for reading and commenting****, I´m happy about your support!  
**

Enjoy!

o o o

**All the Songs Make Sense  
**

o o o

Part 5: Mirror, Mirror on the Wall

**o**

Pacing back and forth in the living room, Sherlock caught his reflection in the mirror above the mantelpiece and paused in his motion. He had never given much thought to his looks, not as an adult anyway. He supposed he must have as a teenager, but apparently he had deleted any memories related to "coming-to-terms-with-your-adolescent-face".

He didn´t consider himself as handsome for he wasn´t exactly at ease with his features or the way his hair behaved as though it had a life of its own; he wasn´t vain enough to really care however, therefore he just stopped worrying about it at one point. One couldn´t choose the way one looked, after all.

Clothes, now that was a different matter. He made a point of dressing well; he had learned early on that looking impeccable opened many doors, and it was easier to deceive people, if necessary.

He liked how his tailor customarily presented him with a choice of fabrics every time Sherlock called round; selecting materials and colours, texture and cuts reminded him of composing a piece of music. At first there were merely ideas, bits and pieces waiting to be assembled, but in the end, it all fit together harmoniously.

But he was straying from the subject. He frowned at his mirror image, trying to recall where his initial train of thought had come from, because all this pondering was completely irrelevant, a waste of precious time. His gaze softened as he remembered: he had been thinking about John.

Sherlock had repeatedly caught himself wondering recently what John was thinking about his flatmate´s looks. He had been irritated by that, because it hardly mattered if John found Sherlock ... attractive, but every time he told himself that, his stomach fluttered and he felt funny. It was an unwelcome distraction at first, but one he couldn´t ignore because it occured at all possible times, usually taking Sherlock by surprise. He was seriously considering destroying every single mirror in the building because he constantly found himself staring into one, intent on solving the riddle, but that would have been too conspicuous.

On the previous night, John and Sherlock had been sitting in their respective armchairs watching the telly, and Sherlock, being in a good mood because of a freshly wrapped case, had been able not only to follow the movie, but had sort of enjoyed it. At one point, John had turned to look at him, smiling- and Sherlock, god forbid, had _blushed_.

He was still horrified by it. He didn´t blush, he never had and certainly wasn´t prepared to start doing it now. Yet he had, he had felt his face growing hot, and John´s expression had taken on a rather curious look- as though he had unexpectedly caught a glimpse of what lay behind the looking-glass. Sherlock rolled his eyes: there, his own brain was mocking him, thank you very much. He really didn´t need any of that nonsense, but now he couldn´t stop wondering just _what_ John saw when he looked at Sherlock.

He stepped closer to the mirror again, studying his face: his mouth was much too big, and his eyes were strangely slanted- he really didn´t have anything on John´s handsome features, on the contrary: in comparison to him Sherlock looked ridiculous. He sighed, abruptly turning away from the mirror. The doctor wasn´t one to judge a book by its cover anyway.

"I am going to stop reducing John to a superficial git," he said aloud, trying to distract himself.

"No, please- do go on, I´d like to hear the rest of it."

Sherlock jumped, spinning around: "John."

His flatmate stood in the door to the living room, eyebrows raised questioningly: "Why am I being reduced to a superficial git?"

Sherlock for once looked like a deer caught in the headlights, but he recovered astonishingly quick, putting his hands in his pockets: "I wasn´t talking about you."

"Oh, really? To me it did sound like it."

"Did it?"

"Yes, it did. The name´s a bit of a giveaway."

"Hm. I´ll leave you to your imagination then," Sherlock made a beeline for the door, albeit moving deliberately slow.

John of course wasn´t fooled by his friend and crossed his arms in front of his chest, intent on not letting him through: "Where are you going?"

"To the market, we need milk."

"You are going to buy groceries? Now?"

"Yes- is that so inconceivable?"

"You have no idea. Besides, you´re just trying to wiggle out of a conversation."

Sherlock feigned ignorance:"Which conversation, pray, do you mean?"

John, fully prepared to stare him down if necessary, stuck out his chin: "Sherlock- why don´t you just _tell _me?"

Sherlock skilfully avoided his gaze by busying himself with his scarf: "Anything else, apart from the milk?"

"The truth."

"I don´t know what you mean." With that, Sherlock turned and went out through the kitchen door.

**o**

He wouldn´t talk when he returned to the flat twenty minutes later, but took up his violin and began to play- a consecutive string of melancholy pieces, one after the other.

John didn´t even try to speak with him again, for he knew it was pointless with Sherlock in a mood like that.

When John left the flat to meet Mike Stamford for a pint that evening, Sherlock didn´t even seem to notice. He had begun to compose and was entirely engrossed in his work.

Mike usually was good fun; it was nice to reminisce about the old days with him, and John was always interested to hear about the students Mike was teaching, though they didn´t only talk shop.

He found it hard to concentrate initially, for his thoughts were still revolving about this latest display of inexplicable Sherlockian behaviour; fortunately, Mike didn´t notice it, and after the second pint, John began to relax.

When he came home a few hours later, Sherlock was still awake. He had been lying on the sofa and fully intended to pretend to be sleeping; he listened as John stumbled up the stairs- too much to drink, obviously.

The doctor hesitated in the hallway, but instead of turning towards the bathroom or the second flight of stairs, he entered the living room: "Sherlock," he demanded, "I know you´re awake."

Sherlock opened one eye and peered up at him: "You´re drunk. Go to bed."

John shook his head: "No. I´m not too drunk to talk to you."

"Yes, you are. Better lie down."

"First, you are gonna listen to me."

"Oh god, must I?"

John ignored him: "_You_, Sherlock Holmes, are no mystery to me. I mean, you _are_ a mystery to me, but that´s not the point. Or... maybe the other one isn´t."

Sherlock, seeing that John was being as stubborn as he was tipsy, sat up: "You´re not making any sense."

"Well that´s too bad, because to me, I do."

"So am I a mystery to you or not?"

John threw his hands in the air, nearly losing his balance: "You are. You absolutely_ bloody_ are. And you know what? That´s only because usually, you are not. There. I said it made sense."

"No, it doesn´t."

John found that the floor was moving a little too much, so he sat down heavily next to his friend: "How long have we known each other now? No, shut up, that´s a rhetocarel- rhetorical question."

Sherlock held out his hands in a gesture of mock placation: "_Sorry_. Go on."

"And I think we do know each other quite well," John continued. "And then you go and pull a stunt like the one this afternoon."

"I didn´t _pull a stunt_," Sherlock said indignantly. "Where do you get these Americanisms from at all?"

Ignoring him again, John seemed to wait for an answer: "Well?"

"Well what?"

"Well, what did you mean when you said you were going to stop reducing me to _a superficial git_?"

Sherlock sighed. They did indeed know each other well, therefore he could tell that John wouldn´t let go of the topic in the foreseeable future. On the contrary.

His own options were limited: he could keep denying it. He could move out. Or he could just tell John the truth. Which might result in unpleasantness, mildly put. If he didn´t tell John, he´d keep wondering and would eventually go mad, but at least John wouldn´t feel awkward. Well. Not like that, anyway.

Sod it. Going mad was still preferable to losing John, and he didn´t want to take _that_ risk. And he could still destroy those mirrors.

"Nothing. Just forget about it." He got to his feet: "Going to bed. Good night."

John stared after him: "Sherlock! The conversation is not over yet!"

The only answer he got was the sound of Sherlock´s closing bedroom door.

**o o o**

**TBC  
**

_AN_: Just a quick note to emphasize that the author´s not sharing Sherlock´s opinion about his looks but thinks he´s rather delectable. ;D

Thanks for reading! Feedback, as always, welcome.**  
**


	6. Significant Other

**Disclaimer**: Sadly, I do not own Sherlock Holmes or any recognizable character and am not making any profit by using them.

**Author´s notes** (please read these first):

This is not an ongoing multi-chapter fic, rather variations of the same theme (which might greatly differ in length), namely how John and Sherlock realize they are in love with each other or respectively which trigger situations might occur.

It´s _neither going to contain smut nor any graphic sex_, and I really don´t like the word 'slash'- 'love' sounds much better. So yeah, I couldn´t resist, for they do make a great couple in my opinion, and of course you´ll get some fluff as well.

_Still, if you don´t like to read about homosexual love, this might not be the right thing for you._

Furthermore I am no native English speaker and therefore apologize for any mistakes. Oh, and there are spoilers for all six episodes of _Sherlock_.

* * *

**Thank you for reading and commenting****, I´m happy about your support!  
**

**Warning for this one: **contains lots of fluff and a bit of non-graphic sex. **  
**

This part came as a surprise for me (this is what procrastinating does to you); it´s not a continuation of _Mirror, Mirror._

Enjoy!

o o o

**All the Songs Make Sense  
**

o o o

Part 6: Significant Other

**o**

Mycroft Holmes is constantly worrying about Sherlock; his greatest fear is that something might happen to his brother. He doesn´t understand why Sherlock throws himself into danger with such carelessness, and for once, John agrees with him.

They are home now, but only a few hours earlier he thought they wouldn´t live to see another day, after they had run into a trap. It would take some time to forget the image of two men holding Sherlock in their grips, threatening to kill him; Sherlock couldn´t move at all, and John could see that he turned white every time one of the brutes twisted one of his limbs further in order to emphasize their seriousness.

Sherlock wouldn´t give them the satisfaction to utter a single sound of discomfort, but John could see that it was increasingly difficult. The detective´s eyes were locked with his own, daring him to keep silent as well and narrowing with pain from time to time.

Thank god Lestrade had for once been able to solve a riddle on his own and they had been found before it got worse.

When they were dropped off in Baker Street later, Sherlock and John dragged themselves upstairs, neither of them in the mood for talking. John´s neck was aching where he had been hit, and Sherlock was cradling his abused left hand in his right in what he obviously thought was an inconspicuous manner.

Both of them sat down in their respective chairs and just looked at each other, assessing the damage and feeling relieved that it was over and they had both escaped relatively unscathed.

It´s not the first time that it has been a close call. Yet it is the first time that both of them realized how much they meant to each other, and how much each of them could have lost. The transition from _friend_ to _significant other_ has been as smooth as the one from _flatmate_ to _friend_, even though it´s not even been mentioned until now.

As though there had been an inaudible cue, they stood up and pulled each other into a hug which eventually turned into something more serious, a tight embrace.

**o**

John inhales Sherlock´s scent and Sherlock inhales John´s scent and even though they are not all right yet, still having to process the latest events, this is making up for a lot. The world has been tumbling about but they both have someone strong to hold on to.

They don´t let go for a long time. Too much is going on in their heads and in their hearts, too , and it is a relief to feel each other´s heartbeat, to share their warmth.

When they pull back a little to look at each other, their respective expressions are mirrored on their faces: _I love you. I need you. Don´t ever leave me_.

Even Sherlock seems at ease with showing his feelings for once, and it is his hand which searches for John´s:"Can we lie down?" he asks, his voice rough.

"Yes," John breathes, suddenly feeling near tears. He has no idea where that is coming from, but he gladly complies when Sherlock steers him towards his bedroom, and he doesn´t protest when Sherlock begins to peel his clothes off, a little clumsily because his left hand obviously hurts.

John, though not sure what is happening, doesn´t mind that he doesn´t know or what Sherlock is doing, and begins to help. It is a little awkward to undress in front of Sherlock and to also undress Sherlock, but only two hours earlier they thought they were going to die, which puts _awkward _in a whole new perspective, and he is not even nervous.

They crawl under the covers completely naked and huddle together; both their skins are cold at first. John marvels at the smooth softness of Sherlock, and Sherlock thinks he´s never felt anything like this, John´s warmth and his shapes and his scent.

They end up wrapped around each other, two entities woven together in their exhaustion and need to feel safe. Heartbeat to heartbeat, breathing, pulses.

**o**

John presses his face into the hollow of Sherlock´s throat, feeling the detective´s arms around his back in a protective embrace which is mirrored by himself, who is holding on to Sherlock tightly. Their legs are entwined and slowly, the coldness abates as their warmth combines. It is not awkward anymore, just soft and exciting and soothing all at once.

An anchor in another human body, Sherlock muses, who would have thought. John´s breath ghosts against his skin, which is new but not unpleasant, small warm puffs with the regularity of a clockwork. He gently presses a kiss into John´s hair and can feel the other smile.

"John," he begins, his voice reverberating through their chests, "is this okay?"

Trust Sherlock to act first and ask later. John´s smile deepens: "Yes," he says, "more than okay."

Sherlock is quiet for while, but John can hear him think, something he´s picked up from him.

"Will it still be okay tomorrow morning?" he eventually asks, sounding... shy. His heartbeat has picked up considerably.

"I will be happy to wake up like this," John murmurs, gently kissing Sherlock´s skin.

"Oh. Oh, good." Sherlock seems to relax, and it´s quiet again.

They are asleep within minutes.

**o**

In the early morning hours Sherlock turns around to John, whose arm is still around Sherlock´s midriff, though his grip has loosened in sleep. The detective has been awake for some time, chased out of sleep by dreams too dark to remember. Despite the safety of John´s embrace he is trembling and can´t seem to stop; he needs more than John´s arms, he needs his words.

John stirs as Sherlock warily touches his chin, his cheek, fingers exploring the early morning stubble on the doctor´s face. He slowly opens his eyes, snuffling in his sleep, and Sherlock´s heart beats faster again as John´s gaze locks on his own: "Hey," John breathes, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. His expression quickly turns serious again as he notices the distress in Sherlock: "What´s wrong?"

"Nightmares," Sherlock shivers involuntarily. "Can´t remember them, but..." he falls silent, he doesn´t need to explain. John understands.

His eyes wander over Sherlock´s face: "You should have woken me up right away," he murmurs, raising his hand and tenderly stroking Sherlock´s temple with his fingers. "You look tired."

He smiles again, still sleepy: "We could stay in bed today. Then you can sleep and I´ll watch out for nightmares."

Sherlock is already beginning to feel better. John´s voice wraps him in a cocoon of security.

"I don´t want to sleep," he murmurs, "I don´t want to miss you."

"You won´t. I´ll be right here."

"Yes, but I don´t want to miss looking at you."

"Dream of me then." John´s expression is serious as he says this, as though it could be a conscious decision to dream of someone.

Sherlock takes his hand, presses his cheek against it: "If I can." He closes his eyes, lets the feeling of John´s hand on his skin wash over him.

They really should have done this so much earlier.

**o**

They sleep some more, exhausted from their ordeal and the previous days. It is a luxury to have a lie-in, and they have both turned off their phones.

When John wakes up, Sherlock´s not there. The doctor´s still sleepy but disappointment threatens to wash over him until the door to the adjoining bathroom opens and Sherlock comes back in, still not wearing anything.

John´s gaze roams over him, taking stock: he has never consciously fancied any men before, but Sherlock is different. The prospect of being intimate with him isn´t scary, especially not after last night, for John can exactly recall how his body feels, and if anything, he wants more.

Sherlock slips under the covers, shivering due to the cool air in the flat, and presses himself against John: "I made you miss the moment," he states, his voice low.

"Which moment?"

"You said you were going to be happy waking up in my arms."

John props himself up on one elbow: "There´ll be other moments," he says very softly, and then he kisses Sherlock.

The detective, who has always prided himself on being capable of controlling his emotions to the point of not having any, now realizes that he has been stupid, and that he has been missing out on something wonderful.

John´s kisses are gentle and firm at once, and this is something he doesn´t share with anyone else. Sherlock feels butterflies in his stomach.

They take their time exploring: Sherlock´s fingers need to touch John´s scar, his lines around his eyes, the smooth ridges of his collarbones. John runs his hands through Sherlock´s curls, gently tracing the shell of his ear, his mouth.

Sherlock seems relaxed, not once uttering the word 'boring' (for which John would have kicked him out of bed, of course) and doesn´t seem preoccupied otherwise. He manages to keep his brain in check for the time being, or so it seems.

**o**

Later on, they make love; a natural progression. It is different from what John has experienced so far, and Sherlock is new to the whole concept, but their instincts take over and they don´t have to rush things. It is neither frantic nor weird, rather an expression of their love and getting to know more about the other.

At the end of the day, Sherlock lies awake while John has fallen asleep on his shoulder; he feels calm and content and doesn´t want to be anywhere else. But that´s exactly the point, isn´t it: if they hadn´t run into the trap on the day before, they´d not be here like this, right now.

He finds it difficult to swallow his pride when it came to having been overpowered by someone so _mediocre_ as those men; it really doesn´t bear thinking about, but John and he have been saved, after all, and everyone makes mistakes. He usually doesn´t, of course, but now he has. His ego would certainly have been wounded if the outcome had been different.

And it has certainly been an eye-opener.

Pressing a kiss on John´s forehead, Sherlock smiles and allows himself to drift off to sleep.

**o o o**

**The End**


	7. First Kiss Part 2

**Disclaimer**: Sadly, I do not own Sherlock Holmes or any recognizable character and am not making any profit by using them.

**Author´s notes** (please read these first):

This is not an ongoing multi-chapter fic, rather variations of the same theme (which might greatly differ in length), namely how John and Sherlock realize they are in love with each other or respectively which trigger situations might occur.

It´s _neither going to contain smut nor any graphic sex_, and I really don´t like the word 'slash'- 'love' sounds much better. So yeah, I couldn´t resist, for they do make a great couple in my opinion, and of course you´ll get some fluff as well.

_Still, if you don´t like to read about homosexual love, this might not be the right thing for you._

Furthermore I am no native English speaker and therefore apologize for any mistakes. Oh, and there are spoilers for all six episodes of _Sherlock_.

**Thank you for reading and commenting****!**

Part 7 is the counterpart of part 3, their first kiss. While part 3 was more from John´s point of view, this one is Sherlock´s. Enjoy!

o o o

**All the Songs Make Sense  
**

o o o

Part 7: First Kiss (Sherlock's POV)

**o**

They´ve been squabbling ceaselessly all day and didn´t even stop in the cab to the crime scene, or _at _the crime scene for that matter, or at the Yard while Sherlock explained the case´s solution to a baffled Lestrade, and certainly not in the cab back home.

And now they´re standing in front of each other, and Sherlock can see that John´s not worn down one bit because he is stubborn, and he won´t let Sherlock off the hook either. They can´t seem to settle the issue, and neither of them is willing to give up.

"I really don´t see your point,"Sherlock says, deliberately nettling John. "If you eliminate all impossibilites there´s only the one logical solution."

"No." John shakes his head. "You are still not taking into account that there might be a third alternative."

Sherlock grimaces: "Come on, we both know that that´s rather ridiculous."

"All I´m saying is that it _could_ have developed differently. And there are other species-"

"But the question is not about any other species. It´s specifically about a chicken."

"Speaks the scientist."

They look at each other, unsure whether this is a reprieve or a tie. Both of them are prepared for another round, and it shows in their respective stance: any observer would have described it as 'ready to pounce'. Simultaneously, the break into a grin, locking their gazes and trying to read each other´s mind, suddenly transfixed.

The expression on John´s face slowly changes into a smile: "Idiot,"he says, though it sounds rather affectionate. No pouncing then.

Sherlock can suddenly feel his heart as it is picking up speed; he´s enjoyed their bickering, and now all his nerves seem to flare up at the warmth in his friend´s voice and the notion that they have reached a dead end, which would be disappointing. Somehow, they are not done yet.

"No, _you_´re the idiot," he replies in a low voice.

Neither of them moves while the air around them is being charged with electrons until it is brimming with energy, fuelled by Sherlock´s wildly beating heart and the affection in John´s voice and the mutual if silent understanding that something has to be done about the situation; clearly, neither of them is going to back off, because if one of them just walked away now, they´d miss something absolutely fabulous.

The gravitation which has kept them revolving around each other so far seems to be increasing; they couldn´t walk away if their life depended on it.

And while Sherlock still stands rooted to the spot, helpless in the prospect of finding a solution, John takes a step towards him, and then another.

Sherlock, for the first time in his life, experiences his brain going blank; well, maybe not exactly, but it´s certainly the first time without any drugs involved. His surprise must have shown on his face, because there´s a minute pause in John´s stride; _oh no_, Sherlock´s brain pipes up, _no second thoughts, please_.

But he needn´t have worried, because John seems determined to carry on. And then he is there: not exactly pouncing but still an unstoppable force, reaching out and catching Sherlock´s coat, pulling him close with surprising strength.

If Sherlock has had any doubts before, they are dispelled now that he and John are standing chest to chest, hip to hip. Impossibly, wonderfully close. John really wants him, he can read it in his gaze, in the smile which is still lingering in the lines around his eyes, in the tightness of his grip.

Sherlock´s arms seem to move of their own account, trying out what it feels like to embrace John Watson, to be allowed, _welcomed_ to touch him. He marvels at the solid reassurance of doing so; it feels indescribable, just as it does when their faces touch; Sherlock inhales John´s scent and thinks that this is something he could get used to, that it´s far less strange when it happens to yourself.

John pauses, taking in Sherlock´s face; the detective can feel himself tremble ever so slightly, and he hopes that John sees more in him than he does himself. What´s there to like, he wonders, but John seems to be content with it, because the smile is back more prominently, and then he asks whether he may kiss Sherlock. Half asks, half demands, to be more precise, and Sherlock, overwhelmed, hurries to encourage him.

John is gentle, and he is caressing Sherlock as though he´s something very precious. Which is new to the detective, and he savours every second of it. The kiss is tender and promising and what he needed, now that he comes to think of it because naturally, once it has kicked in again, his brain won´t shut up; fortunately John, wonderful John, is doing his best to keep Sherlock´s attention directed on him.

And Sherlock, unaware that he has closed his eyes at one point, surrenders to John completely, chicken-or-egg-first forgotten. It´s easy because he trusts the doctor like no other: in fact, there is no one else he´d let take over control like that.

And he really, really could get used to this.

**o o o**

**The End  
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	8. Heartbeat

**Disclaimer**: Sadly, I do not own Sherlock Holmes or any recognizable character and am not making any profit by using them.

**Author´s notes**:

I am no native English speaker and therefore apologize for any mistakes. Oh, and there are spoilers for all six episodes of _Sherlock_.

**Merry belated Christmas and thank you for reading and giving feedback****!  
**

****Enjoy!

o o o

**All the Songs Make Sense  
**

o o o

Part 8: Heartbeat

**o**

In this part, John and Sherlock are trapped in a small elevator due to a power blackout. We jump right into the situation...

**o**

When it was clear that there was no way out and they really were trapped in this _shoebox_ for as long as the blackout lasted, Sherlock suddenly tensed even more until he stood very still. John could sense it rather than see it in the dim light.

"Sherlock, what is it?"

"Don´t speak. Mind palace."

"Oh, Well, thank you for leaving me here on my own, then."

Sherlock huffed instead of a verbal answer, but it sounded different than usual, clipped, just like the few words he had said. Which told John that something was very wrong there. Sherlock was breathing rapidly now and still stood rigidly.

"Sherlock-"

"Damn it! Mind Palace doesn´t work in here!"

Yep. Definitely wrong.

Sherlock seemed to be reeling: "What do we do. What do we do. Roughly 3 feet 3 by 3 feet 11, how much oxygen for two people? How long? Breathe regularly, don´t talk._ Can´t_ stop talking as mind palace doesn´t work. Need to think, think. Need to think about- _what_? Need to-"

"Stop!"

In the semi-darkness John had managed to catch Sherlock´s hands in his own. Sherlock´s were cold and clammy, evidence of his rising panic.

"Stop," John repeated a little more quiet. "You are talking yourself into a frenzy."

"I _am _claustrophobic, John," Sherlock all but shouted, squirming. He did not try to free his hands, however; his fingers had indeed curled around John´s. Cold sweat was beading on his brow.

"I can see that much," John replied calmly. "But if you freak out, I´ll have to _knock_ you out, and believe me, you don´t want that."

"I remember. You once showed me what you´re capable of."

"That was only kindergarten," John said casually, noticing how Sherlock was beginning to tremble. "And besides, you started it. Okay... Let´s sit down, okay?"

"Sit down, why?" Sherlock´s voice was high-pitched.

"Trust me," John said, and Sherlock, who did trust him, complied (much to John´s surprise, really).

John settled against the wall: "Lean against me," he instructed in a tone that rather a command than an invitation.

"Why?" Sherlock did not sound suspicious, but it was in his nature to inquire.

"Just do it." John was patient; he was used to dealing with scared people. Sherlock tentatively shifted until he was close. John cautiously put his arms around him and drew him close until Sherlock was leaning against his friend´s chest, sitting between his legs.

"What are you doing?" Sherlock asked, squirming a little again.

"Sit still and look," John said gently. "This way, my back and my arms are between you and the walls, and the ceiling is quite far above. There, where the bit of light comes through."

Sherlock stilled; in his panicked state, that made sense. John was keeping the closing-in at bay. With a shuddered breath, Sherlock relaxed against his friend. "We are going to suffocate," he murmured, closing his eyes. "This is strange."

"No talking, remember?" John said softly. Sherlock sighed, opening his eyes again. He couldn´t relax enough to let go of control completely, and John could feel the tremor in Sherlock´s body, too agitated to think rationally, a rare situation. They were of course not going to suffocate, but there was no use trying to tell Sherlock that. With measured movements, the doctor fished his handkerchief out of his pocket and wiped the sweat off Sherlock´s forehead.

"Can you feel my heartbeat?" John asked after a moment. He could certainly feel Sherlock´s, beating wildly.

"Yes."

"Concentrate on it," John said, "you can count the beats."

Sherlock was going to protest, but then he listened to John´s heart which he could feel through the fabrics of their clothes, and it was strangely fascinating, the notion that this small yet strong muscle was going to repeat the same function again and again and again, unfailingly so at that; and nearly against his will, Sherlock began counting. He dozed off at approximately 1.970 beats, which was approximately half an hour after the blackout had started.

John smiled, pressing a kiss into his friend´s soft, dark curls, taking in the faint scent of his shampoo; it didn´t feel bad at all, having Sherlock in his arms like this, even if the circumstances were a little peculiar. Sherlock´s heartbeat had slowed down to a normal pace in the meantime, which was good.

Yes, John concluded, there definitely were worse situations he could imagine being stuck in with Sherlock Holmes.

**o o o**

**The End  
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(of this part)**  
**

**o**

Thanks for reading! Please leave some feedback, and I wish you all a Happy New Year!


	9. Speaking Of Which

**Disclaimer**: Sadly, I do not own Sherlock Holmes or any recognizable character and am not making any profit by using them.

**Author´s note**: I am no native English speaker and therefore apologize for any mistakes.

**o  
**

**Thank you **for reading and commenting, I´m happy about your support! I surprised myself with this rather quick update...**  
**

**Warning for this one: **contains lots of fluff and a bit of non-graphic sex. **  
**

Enjoy!

o o o

**All the Songs Make Sense  
**

o o o

Part 9: Speaking Of Which...

**o**

Once John is awake, he can´t go back to sleep. It has always been like that, and on this very morning he curses it, maybe for the thousandth time.

He has woken entirely too early, it´s barely light out, and Sherlock was sleeping peacefully, nestled in John´s arms. He´d have loved to stay like this, listening to Sherlock´s quiet breathing until he woke as well, but his bladder, who´d roused him in the first place, didn´t allow for it.

He has painstakingly slowly extricated himself from Sherlock, been to the bathroom and then equally careful climbed back into bed. Sherlock has turned on his side during the short time in which John was gone, and as he now slips back under the covers, he presses himself against the detective´s back, winding one arm around Sherlock´s hip. He cautiously shifts around until he´s comfortable, resting his cheek against the nape of Sherlock´s neck. It´s such a marvel to be able to do this, he thinks, nuzzling Sherlock´s skin and inhaling the other´s scent.

If anyone could see them now, they´d probably not believe their eyes, for Sherlock Holmes has done his best to spread the impression of being an unfeeling, deadhearted bastard, and people often consider John Watson as his devout and rather blind follower, someone who has got nothing better to do or maybe simply was at the wrong place at the wrong time and then got stuck; someone who came back from the war damaged enough not to mind.

None of this is true, at least not strictly speaking. But of course, that particular milk is spilt, and nobody would possibly believe John if he told them how caring Sherlock can be, how gentle, how considerate of John´s needs. How incredibly good he smells and how soft his lips are, how much John loves it when they kiss, when they caress each other with a tenderness neither of them knew they possessed.

It´s when Sherlock is most unhurried, most unfocused, and, John is convinced of it, most himself. The true self, not the one he flaunts about. The one which allows him to relax and enjoy being together with the man he loves, which allows him to show emotions and say silly things which aren´t so silly when you are in love.

John subdues a sigh, stroking Sherlock´s skin just below his navel with his fingertips. Getting to know the other´s body was strange, weird, wonderful, scary and exciting all at once, but now they are comfortable with each other´s anatomy, which seemed an entirely foreign territory at first. It now seems ridiculous to John that he actually has been a little intimidated by touching Sherlock´s more private parts; being naked with each other was one thing, being _intimate_ a whole different story. Pressing a kiss on Sherlock´s ear, John smiles: now, he wouldn´t want to miss it ever again.

He listens to Sherlock´s steady heartbeat while he ponders the man, something he never tires of. Peering down on the corner of Sherlock´s mouth, which he can just see from his position if he cranes his neck, he contemplates his partner´s smile. Sherlock´s lovely when he smiles. It´s a rare treat, getting a genuine smile from the great detective, but John´s heart rate picks up considerably every time he does.

Sherlock´s also lovely when he´s on the brink of falling asleep; he usually takes some time, murmuring and snuffling and kneading his pillow with one hand because he usually is agitated.

He´s gorgeous when he actually sleeps, his expression all innocent, unguarded, long lashes contrasting with pale skin, hair tousled. He´s a surprisingly heavy sleeper too; as much trouble he has to _find _sleep, as difficult he finds it to wake up and get going. He usually is up early, but talking is not a possibility at that time of day. Unless there is a case, of course; the adrenaline works better than three cups of coffee.

John comes to the conclusion that he loves it best when Sherlock´s dozed off on the couch though, because waking him in order to get him to bed usually is John´s task, and Sherlock´s not only adorable when he´s half-awake and sleepy, but also rather cuddly, his long limbs wrapping around John with surprising flexibility.

* * *

"You´re awake," Sherlock murmurs, his voice low and drowsy. He blinks a few times, not quite awake himself yet, and yawns. To John, even his yawn looks delicate, but that´s most probably down to the rose-tinted goggles he´s certain he´s wearing, which the rational part of his mind keeps reminding him of, at the same time snickering at him.

John ignores it and caresses Sherlock´s cheek: "Did I wake you?"

"No." Sherlock covers John´s hand with his own, stroking it with his thumb: "Do you have to go to work today?"

"No," John sighs in relief, "I don´t. Not for the next two days, actually."

He can feel Sherlock´s smile underneath his fingers: "Good," he murmurs before slowly turning around until they are eye to eye, and Sherlock is still smiling: "Good morning." His deep baritone sends a vibration through John which makes his stomach flutter: "Good morning," he breathes, wishing he could have this every day; he´s sure it´s not going to wear off so soon, if ever.

They nuzzle their faces against each other, nose against nose, lips meeting for a kiss, then another, and another. There´s only the two of them and time has become obsolete.

Sherlock sometimes looks back at those moments and wonders what is happening to him; it doesn´t make sense to act like that, sentiment before ratio, and yet it is what he wants and what he needs right now, and somehow, he´s fine with it. He hasn´t missed any of this before he met John, but going back to that state is inconceivable. He feels less hounded by his own thoughts, less tense, infinitely more capable of dealing with the world around him.

He had been intimidated at first; being in bed with John, with anyone at all, and willingly being vulnerable scared him more than he´d anticipated, but of course John managed to make him feel safe and secure almost instantly, being gentle and non-demanding.

Sherlock remembers the first time John´s hand slowly went exploring below his navel, and the memory always sends pleasant goosebumps down his spine, because John´s hand ventured where none other than Sherlock had ever had access before, and while the doctor was kissing Sherlock and caressing him with his left, the right was doing wonderful things to the detective, giving him an idea of whatever else might be possible, while his brain gave up thinking any clear thoughts at all for the time being.

Contrary to his expectations it hadn´t been embarrassing or unpleasant though, and he had felt loved and cherished.

It was special to share those most private of moments with John, and Sherlock couldn´t imagine having to go without ever again, because it was something only they were doing with each other, and it showed how much they trusted each other.

And it felt good, of course. He loved it when John was lying on top of him or if he was lying on top of John, feeling the other breathing, feeling the whole of his body, feeling complete.

"I love you," Sherlock now says, and John presses closer to him: "I love you, too," he whispers against Sherlock´s mouth. "So much."

Sherlock wraps his arm around John: "Good," he repeats in a very low voice. "John."

**o o o**

**The End**

**(of this part)  
**

Thank you for reading. Please leave some feedback.


	10. Relaxation

**Disclaimer**: Sadly, I do not own Sherlock Holmes or any recognizable character and am not making any profit by using them.

**Author´s note**: I am no native English speaker and therefore apologize for any mistakes.

**o  
**

**Thank you **for reading and commenting, it´s as always much appreciated! **  
**

This part contains some minor spoilers for "A Study in Pink".

Enjoy!

o o o

**All the Songs Make Sense  
**

o o o

Part 10: Relaxation

**o**

Heavy rain was drumming against the windows of 221B. The living room was bathed in strange, aquatic, late-afternoon twilight, the fireplace being the only source of light.

John Watson was lying on the sofa, half-dozing and half-listening to the monotonous sound on the glass panes. One of his hands was slowly caressing the temple of his partner, from time to time playing with one of the soft strands of dark curly hair; his other arm was lying around the man´s shoulder. Sherlock´s head was resting just below John´s sternum, his arms disappearing between the pillows underneath the doctor´s midriff; the detective was lying on his front, nestled between John´s legs. He was fast asleep, having succumbed to his exhaustion after solving a case earlier that day.

John looked at him and smiled sleepily, relishing the warm, strangely pleasant weight on his stomach and the way Sherlock looked when he was sleeping, dark lashes contrasting with his pale skin.

They didn´t often have the opportunity to take their time like this, and John was enjoying their closeness. He could feel Sherlock´s breath: slow, warm puffs which repeated themselves in a steady rhythm.

It was strangely and wonderfully intimate, their bodies pressed together like this, and John marvelled at the thought. He was not ashamed to admit that he was happy, elated even, that this was something Sherlock was sharing with no one else but him, John. In fact, in made his heart swell. It was a rare treat that they were spending some quiet time together, wrapped in the tranquil peace of a winter afternoon, just the two of them.

It was even rarer to see Sherlock readily giving in to his exhaustion after days of frantic research; he had been dead tired and was staggering by the time they got home earlier that day. He was completely oblivious to the world around him now, his face finally relaxed. There was still a lot of tension palpable in his shoulders, and John wondered how he could even be remotely comfortable in the position he was in, but at the same time he hoped it would last, despite feeling his own hips beginning to protest a bit. It didn´t matter, he could stay like that for a little longer.

He gently reinforced his grip around the other man, feeling the shoulderblades through their shirts, the warmth of the skin, relishing the notion that it was really Sherlock, solid and surprisingly strong, lying on him, not just a figment of his imagination. Ever since their relationship had evolved from friends to significant others, John kept having those moments in which he still couldn´t believe it.

Sherlock at times still was a mystery to him, and he suspected that the detective actually liked it that way- his penchant for being 'dramatic', as Mycroft had called it. John thought back to that first meeting- or rather, the first time Mycroft had abducted him- and involuntarily smiled. He had only known Sherlock for a day, but had already felt compelled to take his side. His attraction to the man had developed quickly, a feeling which, as he now knew, had been mutual. Thank God.

His fingers found Sherlock´s curls again, gently playing with them, caressing the skin underneath. He loved those curls; anyone else would probably look ridiculous with a hairstyle like that, but John couldn´t imagine Sherlock without it.

Still smiling, he closed his eyes, allowing himself to drift off.

**o**

He woke up a little later because his hips were seriously protesting by then. With much regret, he gently stroked the other´s neck: "Sherlock."

The answer was a low sigh, which John could feel on his skin, tickling. He increased the pressure of his fingertips: "Wake up, love."

A groan this time, then Sherlock turned his head so that he could sleepily peer up at John: "Hm?"

"Sorry, but I need to move."

"´kay..." Sherlock slowly extricated himself from John, grimacing a bit when his own limbs protested as well.

He eased himself onto his side, making room for John; the sofa admittedly was rather narrow, but John managed to turn onto his side too, coming to lie in front of Sherlock, who immediately wound his arm around him. John pulled a blanket from the sofa´s backrest and covered them both with it, snuggling back against Sherlock, who was holding him close, his hand underneath John´s hip.

He was already half-asleep again, his breath ghosting over John´s ear this time. The doctor also closed his eyes once more; outside, it had gotten dark. The rain hadn´t lessened one bit, still providing a soothing, steady background rhythm, just like Sherlock´s breathing. Contentedly, John sighed, allowing himself to be lulled back to sleep.

**o**

**The End**

(of this part)

**o**

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	11. Start-up

**Disclaimer**: Sadly, I do not own Sherlock Holmes or any recognizable character and am not making any profit by using them.

**Author´s note**: I am no native English speaker and therefore apologize for any mistakes.

**o  
**

**Thank you **for reading and commenting, it´s as always much appreciated! **  
**

Enjoy!

o o o

**All the Songs Make Sense  
**

o o o

Part 11: Start-up

**o**

"John."

"Hm."

"What are you doing here?"

"Just closing my eyes for a sec."

"It looks like you are sleeping whilst sitting up."

"No, really, just... a few minutes."

"Maybe you should go to bed."

"Yeah... need to take off shoes first..."

...

"John. John!"

"Hmwhat? I´m here."

"You´re still not in bed."

"No... shoes..."

John didn´t know why, but he couldn´t recall having ever felt so tired. He had come home and all but dropped onto the sofa, wishing to rest only a moment before climbing the stairs up to his room, but the instant he´d been sitting, his eyes had closed on their own account. He knew he had to get up and undress and all that, but it seemed impossible.

And then it hadn´t anymore, he had somehow gotten up and was already upstairs, shoes off and his bed turned down- but something kept nagging at the back of his mind. Something unpleasant- oh, no. He had only _dreamed_ he had gotten up, he was really stillsitting on the sofa.

But then there were two hands who were taking his, pulling him up to his feet. Oh, yes, Sherlock had been talking to him, hadn´t he? And now it seemed he was trying to help John- sweet Sherlock, he was supporting John and had one arm firmly around his midriff, which made walking a lot easier, especially since his eyes were still closed.

Sherlock smelled good, too; John turned his face into his flatmate´s shirt and sighed, breathing in deeply. The stairs were a challenge, but somehow, they managed, completely without bumping into anything on the way, and then John was in his bed, shoeless and tucked in by long-fingered hands.

"Good night, John," Sherlock´s deep voice said, and the doctor nearly giggled while he was already dozing off again: "Night, love," he muttered before he knew nothing more.

Sherlock paused, a half-amused, half-contemplative look on his face, before closing the door.

**o**

**The End**

(of this part)

**o**

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